


Little John and Uncle Greg

by 221bBakerStreet221b



Series: Little Brothers Mine [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Comfort/Angst, Desperation, M/M, Omorashi, Thumb-sucking, Wetting, pull-ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-02 21:57:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10953510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bBakerStreet221b/pseuds/221bBakerStreet221b
Summary: It's only been a few months of sinking down into headspace for John, and he's never participated in age play without Sherlock by his side.  But Mycroft can sense that John is slipping after a tough case, and as much as John has assured him in the past that he doesn't need age play in the way Sherlock does, Mycroft calls in reinforcements to make sure his little Bunny has the care that he needs when he arrives back at Baker Street.





	1. Intelligence from MH

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, lovelies! You know how every once in a while all you want to do is write fiction and all the universe wants to do is throw busy days and sore throats and general upheaval into your life? That's definitely been the case for me this past week and a half. I've been eager to continue writing "Weekend at the Lake" but honestly haven't had any time. So, while I have a quick moment, I figured I would follow through with uploading something I wrote a while ago for this series in order to give you all an update. 
> 
> NOTE: This story takes place chronologically after "A Trip to the Zoo" but before "Weekend at the Lake." I wasn't sure I would upload it, which is why it's being posted later than "Weekend." I'm going to try to re-number so that it shows up as Part 3 instead of Part 4, but I'm not sure if that's possible, so bear with me.
> 
> This story is basically just a lot of angsty little John receiving comfort from Lestrade, but hopefully there's some interesting character development points scattered throughout as well! 
> 
> Text messages are offset with dashes to keep them separate from dialogue.
> 
> Hope you're all well--thanks for commenting and leaving kudos!

John climbed the steps to 221b heavily. He had just returned from where he and Sherlock had been finalizing a rather brutal case in Scotland, and although Sherlock had solved it, there were still loose ends to tie up which would keep him busy for at least another day. John hadn’t slept more than an hour or two in four days. He was exhausted, starving, and irritated with Sherlock, who had been distant and cocky the entire trip.

“I need you to go back to Baker street,” Sherlock had said when the plane landed. “I’ll text with further instructions when you’re there.”

John begrudgingly agreed, if only because he could at least find a change of clothes and might even have time to squeeze in a shower between completing what he could only assume would be asinine tasks that Sherlock would expect him to complete without question or hesitancy. 

Baker street might also mean a chance for a bit of time to himself. He had been becoming progressively emotionally drained as the case continued, a nasty case involving a serial killer and gruesome murders which they had been unable to stay ahead of. John, caught up alongside the local law enforcement in the frenetic pace of the events as they unfolded, was left feeling helpless with little time to process his thoughts. He also couldn’t help but notice that, within the past day or so, the helplessness had a secondary effect: he had caught himself feeling a bit young. He’d been shoving the feeling aside because he knew he couldn’t slip until the case was completed. Even then, Mycroft would still be abroad and not available for some time. 

As much as John wished he could slip down in age and play with an also young Sherlock, he knew that just wasn't how Sherlock operated after a case. Sherlock rarely shifted down into headspace until at least a few days after a case had been finalized, wanting to process all the details and settle them into his mind palace while in his adult mind. Even then, it was often only by encouragement or force from his brother or Lestrade that Sherlock slipped down, often fighting what they had all come to see that he needed. Besides, John had never slipped into headspace without Sherlock, and a grumpy, post-case Sherlock was certainly not about to care for a young John. 

In any case, John had convinced himself he didn’t need to sink down. Age play was something he did primarily for Sherlock, something he had begun only out of necessity to help his best friend de-stress. Yes, he had found himself enjoying the time spent while in a younger headspace; age play was one of the only times he felt free from responsibility and painful memories. But, despite what Mycroft said otherwise about John deserving his own space and parameters to be young, John had never considered the possibility of sinking down without Sherlock doing the same. Age play was for Sherlock; John simply tagged along to help in his own way. 

Then again, John had to admit that he had not been able to keep from thinking just how much he wanted to lie in a dark room with his comfort items when he arrived back to Baker Street, snuggled up in bed with his stuffed lion and, as long as the door was locked, his pacifier. He could not help but blush in embarrassment over how much he wanted the comfort. 

As he climbed the steps to their flat, he shoved the idea of even that small amount of comfort out of his mind. He didn’t need age play. There were Sherlock’s tasks to complete. God knew John had felt enough incompetence within the past few days to last him years; if he could help to finalize the case now, even in a small way, he would be grateful. Sure enough, as he reached the landing in front of the door of 221b, his phone chimed with a text from Sherlock.

-Lestrade- it read.

John furrowed his eyebrows and re-read the text, not understanding what Sherlock was on about. He began drafting a short-tempered response, annoyed with Sherlock out for always providing the least amount of information in the most cryptic of ways in order to stroke his own ego. As he was editing out three swear words, another text came through.

-He’s there for the bunny.-

John felt himself go still. Their case in Scotland had not involved animals of any kind, and there certainly wasn’t a rabbit in their flat waiting to be passed over to the authorities. John could feel his heartbeat in his neck. There was only one bunny Sherlock was currently associating with: John himself.  
Sherlock would never go as far as to mention their ageplay through text, knowing how easily he could be hacked or monitored, but ‘bunny’--the nickname Sherlock had taken to using when John was young, had become a bit of a codeword among them. Was Sherlock saying Lestrade was in their flat? For John? A text ping came through.

-No further instructions until tomorrow.-

John realized he had been holding his breath. His cheeks pinked as he wondered if Sherlock had picked up on his emotional state, had realized John had been fighting the vulnerability he only allowed himself when little. Had it been that obvious? He thought he’d done a fair enough job of stifling his feelings. Sherlock was crap when it came to emotions, and if he’d been able to see John slipping into a vulnerable state, others may have as well. He was angry at himself, disappointed for letting his emotions enter into a case to the point that it had distracted Sherlock. A final text ping came through.

-Intelligence from MH.-

John sighed, relieved. Sherlock had not picked up on John’s state, Mycroft had. Most likely he’d noticed something was off the day before, when he’d arrived in Scotland at the tail end of their case, a matter of national security. Mycroft had, despite John’s half-hearted protests that he was only little for Sherlock’s sake, made it his job to observe John while in headspace; of course it made sense he would pick up on the man’s mental state even when fully adult. 

The relief of that realization and the thought that Mycroft had been observing him had the unexpected effect of causing him to slip down in headspace for a moment. He was surprised to feel tears welling in his eyes. He wished Mycroft could be with him. He didn’t want Lestrade, especially when Sherlock was away. He’d never been alone with Uncle Greg while little. What if Lestrade was only begrudgingly following Sherlock or Mycroft’s orders to watch over him for the night? He couldn’t bear it if that were the case; he would rather be alone.

He was aged up again in just a moment, angry by the time he burst into the flat that plans had been made behind his back. He shoved open the door and refused to acknowledge the voice in the back of his mind explaining that the plans had been set in place for his own good, that Mycroft usually knew best. 

He ignored rational thoughts that his friends were simply concerned about him and instead began to plan how he would tell Lestrade to leave, the words he would use to tell him to fuck off and stop interfering in his life. John’s anger needed an outlet, and Lestrade was the only one available at the moment.

But Lestrade was seated in Sherlock’s arm chair, watching a football game on the telly. And when John swung the door open, Lestrade turned to glance at him, his face warm and inviting, and some of John’s irk slipped away.

“Hi, lad,” he smiled.

John took off his jacket and threw it onto the couch.

“I don’t know what Sherlock told you, Greg,” John said, trying but failing to speak with conviction and force. “But I’m fine. You can go home.”

Lestrade flipped off the telly and stood, approaching John.

“Let’s chat for a moment, shall we?”

“I don’t need you to stay,” John said, even as he felt his anger slipping into what threatened to be a weepy frustration. 

He wanted Mycroft. Why hadn’t Mycroft come instead? He knew it was irrational, knew Mycroft had an international responsibility much more important than John at the moment, but he was in an irrational mood, and being back home at Baker Street made him long for quiet and comfort, and he didn’t care what was rational. The pressures of the case seemed all the more draining now that he was finally back in his flat.

“Just have a seat,” Greg said, pulling out a chair at the table and walking to the other side to take a seat himself. 

It was the same configuration John and Mycroft sat in when they were discussing John’s ageplay needs or concerns (Mycroft had insisted, even as John assured him he didn’t need his own set of parameters), and at least John felt a bit better knowing that it truly had been Mycroft who had sanctioned this, not Sherlock. Only Mycroft would know to tell Greg where he should sit to make John feel the most comfortable about expressing his feelings. Here was Mycroft, helping from afar. John sighed, but sat in his regular spot on the far side of the table.

“Mycroft seems to think you could use a bit of love right now, lad,” Greg said.

John scrubbed a hand over his face and squirmed in his chair. If Sherlock was averse to receiving affection, John was averse to making others go out of their way for him. Lestrade clearly had better things to do.

“Don’t need it,” John said, but even as he said it he realized his voice was younger. He rubbed at his face to try to keep himself grounded, but the truth of the matter was he wanted to slip, he thought it might be the only way to get through his feelings of guilt over the case. He should have been able to do more to help Sherlock save those people who had died.

“Listen, champ. I know you’d prefer Mycroft. That’s understandable. I’m not going to try to be Mycroft because I can’t do that. But what I can do is be Uncle Greg. And I can tell you I’d very much like to be Uncle Greg for you right now.”

John blinked up.

“Why?”

Lestrade smiled, perhaps with a touch of sadness that John had seen from Mycroft whenever John showed that he didn't believe himself worthy of care. 

“Boys’ night. Just you and me.”

“You could be doing other things,” John mumbled. “You’re busy.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere other than right here, bud,” Greg said. “Besides, it helps me relax, too.”

If John weren’t slipping so quickly--damnit, Mycroft had been right to call in reinforcements--he may have pushed the issue further, may have questioned just why Lestrade didn’t mind caring for him, but he knew those were only his hang-ups. Even if Mycroft hadn’t been upfront with the boys about his on-again-off-again relationship with Lestrade, John and Sherlock had been seeing the signs for months, now. There was a reason Mycroft had invited Greg into the ageplaying that Sherlock and John participated in. It would have been just as easy--if not easier--for Mycroft to simply have hired someone suitable as a babysitter who would be paid an exorbitant amount of money not to say anything. But it was Greg who became the boys’ secondary caregiver. John had begun his age play relationship with Sherlock as his caretaker, and so he knew very well that there was a release in caretaking the same way there was a release in ageplaying, that Mycroft and Lestrade happened to be primarily caretakers while Sherlock happened to primarily need caring for. John was a mix of the two, but right now even he could see that he needed someone to look after him. 

John tried to accept Lestrade’s words as truth. It was something he’d been working on with Mycroft, not second guessing the motives behind someone’s statements. And, in that moment, exhausted and feeling vulnerable, the memory of Mycroft’s assurances in the back of his mind, he allowed himself to let go. 

He nodded and began sucking his thumb. He could be little without Sherlock; Mycroft may not be close by, but he had made sure his little Bunny would be safe.


	2. Babysitters, Bathtime, and Breakdowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments and kudos--it's so wonderful to hear that you're enjoying these stories and that some of you are gaining comfort/general happiness from them. It's frustrating to me how many people don't realize the community and shared sense of joy that can come from fanfiction.
> 
> The chapters of this story are, as I said earlier, primarily already written, but I am doing some brief edits while I go. So, if you have anything you'd like to see while Lestrade babysits the little Bunny, let me know! This chapter features a new development to the John/Mycroft dynamic that I'm anticipating might have a polarizing effect--I'm interested to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Hopefully I'll have time to add a new chapter to Weekend at the Lake soon as well. For now, hopefully this update will tide you all over!
> 
> Have a great day and keep smiling, everyone :)

John may have come to terms with the idea of Uncle Greg babysitting him for the night, but that didn’t do much to quell the anxiety settling deep in his stomach. 

“I’m scared,” John mumbled, pulling at his lower lip where he sat at the kitchen table across from Greg. He realized he was sucking his thumb and yanked it out of his mouth, wiping his fingers on his trousers. What if Uncle Greg got angry if he sucked his thumb or misbehaved on accident? Greg had never been angry before while the boys were little, but that was when he was with Sherlock, too. Did he know the rules Mycroft used for John, the rules that were different than Sherlock’s rules? What if Uncle Greg wasn’t as nice when it was just the two of them alone?

“It can be scary when someone is taking care of you in a new way, huh? But we can pretend it’s just like when I take care of you and Sherlock whenever Mycroft is called away. And that’s pretty normal, right?”

John nodded and chewed on the end of his thumb.

“Yeah-huh.”

“I’ll let you take the lead, bud, unless you tell me otherwise, okay? I want you to be comfortable.”

“Okay,” John whispered. He hesitated because his next ask was a big one, something he’d never done before with Greg, something he’d only recently started doing even with Mycroft. But he needed it to help him make the final transition to little, needed it after days of little sleep and littler time for showering and changing clothes and getting rid of the grime of sweat.

“Bath?” he asked, then immediately slipped his thumb into his mouth, needing the comfort.

Lestrade did not seem taken aback. In fact, he smiled and nodded. Perhaps another scenario Mycroft had pre-empted by explaining to Greg that it might be something John would need?

“That sounds like a great idea,” Greg smiled. “Before we do that, though, how about we call in some take-away to fill that tummy of yours after you’re all nice and clean?”

John nodded, and pointed to one of the takeaway menus that Greg had spread out in front of him. He was feeling a bit non-verbal at the moment, content to suck his thumb and nod or shake his head while Greg read out the menu of the Chinese restaurant. Mycroft said it was okay when John didn’t feel like talking, as long as he made sure to always be upfront about his needs. Once Greg had called it in their order, he retreated to the bathroom and John could hear the tub filling.

“John?” Greg called. “Can you be a good boy for me and go pick out what you’d like to wear after your tub?”

John nodded, desperate to please as always. He climbed from where he had curled himself up on the kitchen chair and scurried down the hall. When he reached Sherlock’s room, however, he hesitated. John had found his favorite Gryffindor pajamas--maroon cotton with gold cuffs at the wrist and ankles--and his most comfortable dressing gown, but when it came time to choose a pair of underwear he got nervous in his tummy. 

Lestrade had said he would let John take the lead, had said he just wanted John to be comfortable. The case and subsequent stress of being little without Mycroft and Sherlock had pushed him lower in headspace than usual, and he was feeling particularly vulnerable. Also, the last time he had seen Uncle Greg when he was little, they had gone to the zoo and John had wet his pants. He hadn’t had any accidents since--he was still working out his thoughts about the issue--but he was suddenly frightened that he might. And what would Uncle Greg think if he wet again? He’d think he was a useless baby. 

Decision made, John opened another drawer and pulled out one of Sherlock’s pull-ups, which he tucked away in the folds of his dressing gown. He had learned the day they went to the zoo that Sherlock’s pull-ups were a bit snug on him; he was not as thin as the taller man. But the sides were stretchy enough to fit him just fine. They were Goodnights, John knew. Real pull-ups would be too small for him and Sherlock. None of the men had ever broached the topic of adult diapers around John, although he had picked up on clues that Mycroft may have used them with Sherlock in the past. 

John also found a pair of superhero undies that he placed on the pile of clothing. If he put the undies on over the pull up and then his dressing gown on over his pajama pants, maybe Uncle Greg wouldn’t even be able to tell he was wearing a pull-up beneath his big boy underwear.

Greg helped him undress and let him choose some bath toys and add in bubble bath. It was clear Mycroft had been thorough when explaining to Lestrade the procedures of their domestic routine, for which John continued to be grateful.

“How’s the water temperature, John-John?” he asked, and John shrugged. He never made a decision about the water temperature. That was Sherlock’s domain and John had no desire to infringe upon it now, it would only serve to remind him that he was alone. He missed Sherlock and he especially missed Mycroft.

“I’m not John-John,” John mumbled. “I’m Bunny.”

Sherlock’s nickname had morphed over the past few weeks into an alter-ego of sorts, the name for John when he was little. Even Mycroft had come to adopt the moniker.

“You have to call me Bunny, now,” John said, a bit louder. This is what he needed. Mycroft would be proud of him for voicing his needs.

Uncle Greg smiled and helped him into the bathtub. 

“Okay, little Bunny foo-foo,” he said, which made John giggle. “How’s the water temperature?”

The water was warmer than Sherlock liked it, but John didn’t mind. It actually felt nice.

He nodded and turned to play with the toys. He had voiced his needs, John told himself; he didn’t have to speak otherwise if he didn’t feel up to it. And he did not feel up to it at the moment.

Greg didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was really fun while giving John his bath. He rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and plunged his forearms into the water to play with the toy boats and toy fish and toy mermaids that were John’s favorites, making funny voices and stories that made John laugh.

“Alright, lad, you’re turning into a prune.” Lestrade said after quite some time. “Let’s wash your hair and get you nice and dry. I’ll bet our food will be here any moment, yeah?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, feeling a bit more confident after Uncle Greg’s game. Uncle Greg wasn’t mean or scary; he was the same as he had always been. And, John realized, if he was, he would have Mycroft to deal with. If Greg wanted to sustain any type of relationship with the man--romantic, as it had seemed lately, or otherwise--he would need to keep Mycroft happy.

Greg messed up and got shampoo in John’s eyes, but John did his best not to whine or cry. He knew it was only an accident, and he had been moving around to grab a plastic mermaid that had slipped out of his hand while Uncle Greg had been rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, so it was partly his own fault. Greg told him he was a brave boy for not crying, which made John feel good. 

He was helped out of the tub and wrapped into an oversized towel--mermaids again and John’s favorite of the colorful towels, although he would never admit it to Sherlock. Mycroft, once again, must have told Lestrade which one to choose from the clean laundry that had been brought up by Mrs. Hudson, who, bless her heart, never seemed to question the rather telling items which often wound up in the boys’ laundry hampers.

“I’ll do it!” John yelled in fear when Greg reached for his clothes.

Greg backed away and seemed a bit surprised by John’s outburst, but he smiled, obviously trying to hide his confusion over the reaction.

“Sorry about that, Bunny. I’ll just go and wait for the take-away to arrive while you get dressed, okay?”

John stood still. He hadn’t meant to hurt Uncle Greg’s feelings. He’d just forgotten about the pull-up until Uncle Greg began to reach for his clothes, and the panic he felt had caused him to yell. Uncle Greg was staring down at him now, waiting for a response, and John’s cheeks pinked because what if he saw the pull-up or what if he thought John hated him now?

“I’m a big boy,” John said in an attempt to explain his actions. It was also an attempt to reassure himself of the fact, knowing that in a moment he would be pulling on a diaper.

“I see,” Greg said. “A big boy who can dress himself. Well done, lad.” 

Whether Greg was putting on an act or not, John believed he was proud of him in that moment, and John breathed a bit easier. 

“I’ll be right out in the kitchen if you need me,” he said before leaving and closing the door so it was only opened by a small sliver. 

John pushed the door closed all the way before dressing as quickly as he could. He didn’t want anyone walking in on him and, when he heard the doorbell ring, he had the irrational fear that somehow the takeaway delivery man would sense that he was yanking a pull-up over his thighs. 

“You’re a bunny, you’re a bunny, you’re my bunny,” John whispered to himself the way Mycroft sometimes had to when John got extra upset and could not keep himself from a panic attack without comfort and reassurance.

“Bun, come on and eat when you’re ready,” Greg called from the other side of the bathroom door, and John felt a stab of panic. He realized he was standing in the bathroom, arms around himself, in nothing but a pull-up and his Gryffindor pajama top.

The Goodnight he had grabbed was camouflage, and in a terrifying instant John saw himself reflected in the bathroom mirror and was plagued with memories of war. Questions of self-doubt crowded his thoughts. He felt his chest tight as he struggled to breathe through the flashbacks, suddenly filled to the brim with self-hatred and fear. The memories had the effect of simultaneously shaming him and forcing him lower in headspace. He quickly pushed the pull up off his waist and down his legs, feeling disgusted with himself for wanting to wear it and desperate to prove that he wasn't weak and vulnerable. He didn't need something so babyish, so indicative of lack of control. But even as he hid the discarded pull-up way back behind cleaning supplies in the cabinet below the sink, he felt himself needier than before, more fearful and anxious. 

He quickly stepped into the cartoon underwear and yanked up his pajama pants. He strung his arms through his flannel dressing gown--it was patterned green and Sherlock had teased John that that was a Slytherin color, but John liked the warmth and comfort of it too much to give it up. When John emerged from the bathroom, he felt an immense relief to find Greg waiting for him with the Chinese food unpacked and the table set.

John also found his stuffed lion sitting at his place along with a gift bag covered in glittery stars. Mycroft must have told Lestrade where his lion was kept tucked away during non-ageplay times. John blushed; that meant Lestrade must have seen his pacifiers, which he had never used before in front of Greg. 

“Uncle Greg, there’s no toys allowed at the dinner table,” he said, not mentioning but staring with wide eyes at the present which was sitting in front of his place at the table. 

“I know, Bunny,” Greg said, spooning some rice onto John’s plate. “But I thought, for just this once, if we’re really careful to eat without a mess, your lion might make you feel a little better.”

“Ariel,” John said, nodding. He had named the lion after The Little Mermaid. Mycroft had read to him one night from a book of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales and, after seeing how much John had liked hearing about mermaids and the ocean, had shown him the Disney movie one afternoon while Sherlock and Greg had played a board game in the kitchen. Sherlock had teased John for using a girl’s name for his lion and had called him girly for liking mermaids, but Mycroft had put Sherlock in the corner and told John it was a lovely name and both boys and girls could like whatever they pleased.

“Well, why don’t you hop on up here and let Ariel help you open up your surprise before dinner, okay?”

John climbed up onto his seat and hugged his lion to his chest.

“It’s for me?” he asked, wondering when the last time he had received a gift had been.

Greg nodded.

“Mycroft was going to save it for your birthday, but he thought you might need a little something tonight to help you be brave. Go ahead and open it up.”

John pulled out the red tissue paper and reached his hand into the sparkling bag. He pulled out a soft, fleece baby blanket, cream colored and covered in realistic looking brown rabbits with green eyes. Ever since Sherlock had given him his new nickname, bunnies had started to become John’s favorite, although he hadn't said anything about it out loud. He was not surprised to find that Mycroft had picked up on his new obsession. John rubbed his cheek against the blanket and smiled up at Greg, who had paused to watch the gift opened. 

“Did Mycroft do a good job?” Greg asked.

John nodded, smiling broadly. 

But then, without warning, he felt himself beginning to cry. His face crumpled as he sunk down in his chair and he began to wail. Greg was beside him in a moment, rubbing his back and telling him it would all be okay. 

John cried because he wanted Mycroft. But he also cried because Uncle Greg was being so nice to him, and wasn’t judging him, and didn’t mind that he had yelled, and had let him choose dinner, and had put out his lion, and didn’t seem to think he was a baby even after he had more than likely seen his pacifiers and could see how much John liked his new baby bunny blanket. And he knew he shouldn’t want Mycroft when Uncle Greg was doing just about everything right. But he did. He wanted him more than perhaps he ever had, and that hurt.

John was glad when Greg wrapped his new baby blanket around John’s shoulders and then picked him up without asking if it was okay. He needed to be held right now. He needed the comfort. And Greg was good at hugs and at lifting John up. Maybe even a little better than Mycroft, because he was stronger. That made John cry harder because he felt guilty for thinking that Greg was better at holding him than Mycroft.

“I want Daddy,” John sniffled, and then, after a moment where Greg looked down at him with raised eyebrows, he broke down in hysterical sobbing. 

He had never called Mycroft Daddy before. He had never even called his own father Daddy before. And even though Greg had recovered and was now looking at him with nothing but acceptance, John knew he would tell Mycroft and then they would have to discuss it and what if it was just too much for Mycroft and he didn’t want to care for him anymore?

Greg walked John back and forth throughout the flat’s rooms as John bawled, rubbing his back and whispering into his ear that he was safe and that Mycroft would come see him just as soon as he could and that he was a good boy for being so brave while his daddy was gone. 

Eventually, John had cried and overthought himself into a bit of weepy exhaustion. It had taken nearly half an hour, but the way that Greg was rocking him back and forth had calmed him enough that after a time he was simply sniffling and rubbing at his watery eyes, too drained to think about much beyond the strength of Greg's arms and the way his blanket felt soft and warm against his neck.

“It’s been a tough few days, huh, Bunny?”

John nodded and lay his head on Greg’s shoulder while he started sucking his thumb.

“How’s about this?” Greg said, and he was holding one of John’s pacifiers close to his mouth.

John hesitated for only a moment before he nodded and reached forward to take it in his mouth. It had an instant calming effect, and he finally felt like he would be able to stop crying. Greg continued to rub his back and rock him back and forth. They settled into John’s armchair and John grounded himself by holding onto the fabric as he sucked hard on his pacifier and pulled his new blanket tighter around his shoulders. The contact from Greg’s arms around his torso, and the strong bulk John could feel as he lay against him, settled him further. 

It was the growling of John’s stomach that eventually interrupted their found serenity. John sat up in surprise after his stomach had growled loudly, and Greg could not help but laugh gently at the boy’s expression. John was a bit bashful, but he laughed as well, and when Greg tickled his tummy, John laughed louder.

“Sounds like someone’s ready for some bunny food,” Greg said, and John nodded. “So’s your Uncle Greg.”

He lifted John and carried him to his place at the table, where John settled his baby blanket around his lap and placed his lion in the chair next to him to keep her from getting dirty. He ate greedily, knowing Sherlock wasn’t there to tease.

“Thank you, Uncle Greg,” John said as he started eating. “Sorry I’m so much work.”

Greg glanced across the table in concern.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re no trouble at all. Everyone needs a good cry now and then, yeah?”

John nodded, then tucked into his food. Mycroft would be back as soon as he could be. For now, Uncle Greg just might do.


	3. Movie Night Wetting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all!
> 
> Important note: There are some elements of sexual arousal (no sexual acts) in this chapter when it comes to John's wetting that may not be everyone's cup of tea. Things get a bit tricky regarding omorashi in works that are otherwise considered non-sexual, which makes for some tricky tagging situations. I've tried to be as upfront as possible in the tags but am interested to hear other's opinions about tagging stories of this kind. To me, the fact that John's arousal is predominately related to desperation/omorashi (which are tagged) does not change the fact that this is a non-sexual ageplay story. However, John is in a young headspace when he wets himself and feels some arousal, so the counter-argument would be that this should be classified as sexual ageplay. Let me know if you think I should make a change to the tags or if they're okay the way they are. I definitely don't want to unknowingly subject anyone to anything they do not want to read or that might trigger them, so I'll change the tags if that seems to be the consensus.
> 
> All of that said, the sexual elements of the story are rather minor in my mind (you could probably miss them if you weren't looking for them), so hopefully they don't keep anyone from reading. I'll be interested to hear what you all think and will use your thoughts to inform the direction John's character will take in future updates.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

After dinner, Uncle Greg suggested a movie to calm them down, and guided John over towards the cabinet beneath the television, telling him to choose something. John shyly held out Beauty and the Beast, and Greg smiled widely and encouragingly because it appeared the boy was nervous about his selection.

“Does Sherlock not like this one, then?” he asked, deducing the boy’s nervousness over his choice.

John shook his head. “Says it’s for girls,” John mumbled, cheeks pinking.

“Well that’s just silly,” Greg said, popping the DVD into the player. “Who ever heard of a movie being only for a boy or a girl?”

John smiled back at Greg when he settled back onto the couch and opened his arms for John to snuggle up against him. He had never before cuddled with Uncle Greg, but he was glad the man was open to it. It just wasn’t as nice to watch a movie without cuddling.

“Want some juice or a snack?” Greg asked as if the idea had just occurred to him.

“Still full,” John said, shaking his head. “But juice, please.”

Greg nodded and stood from the couch while the previews began. He returned a moment later with a sippy cup filled with watered down grape juice (a Mycroft rule involving lowering John and Sherlock’s sugar intakes), which John thanked him for and began drinking from eagerly. He hadn’t said anything to Uncle Greg, but he had missed his sippy cup at dinner, when Greg had just given him a regular glass of water which John had drunk very carefully so as not to spill. 

It was only halfway through the movie that John felt the need to pee. He had found himself squirming a bit, but it was only once he felt in danger of leaking that he realized how badly he needed to go. He knew he should ask Uncle Greg to pause the movie and let him go pee, but he was hesitant to say anything. 

It was a bit like the day at the zoo--he felt, more than anything, a desire to give in to the feelings of helplessness. Needing to go but staying exactly where he was next to Uncle Greg would let him to sink deeper into headspace, would allow him to feel vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to get. The thoughts crowding his mind were eliminated when he became solely focused on his bladder, and not having to think about how much he missed Mycroft or where Sherlock was or how long Uncle Greg would let him stay little was rather appealing at the moment.

John bent his knees so he was almost squatting on the couch next to Lestrade, which allowed him to press his thighs close together. Mycroft would have noticed John’s tells of having to pee already--he had gotten good about noticing when the boy needed to go since John had admitted he wouldn’t mind if Mycroft reminded him to use the bathroom from time to time. But Greg had far less experience. 

John decided to see if he could hold it until the end of the movie. But, deep down, he hoped, perhaps even knew, that it was a lost cause. He had to go too badly to hold it for long, hadn’t gone since before he’d arrived back at Baker Street earlier that evening. 

It wasn’t a surprise when he began to leak in his underwear. He chanced a glance down towards his crotch while Uncle Greg was watching the movie. There was nothing yet visible on his pajama pants, but John could feel his underwear warm and wet as his bladder released a spurt of wetness. John gasped and grabbed at his crotch when a second spurt leaked into his pants, but quickly moved his hand away and turned back to the movie when Uncle Greg glanced over at him. 

It was clear the man had noticed something off about John’s behavior, but John put his hands on his knees and willed himself to be as still as possible. He fixed his eyes on the television and tried not to squirm. 

John felt a haziness of pleasure come over him as he struggled with his full bladder, shuddering at the painful fullness beneath his beltline. The warmth and the pressure and the impending lack of control were almost titillating, and John was too far gone to feel guilt. 

Unable to grasp himself, John could not help but wiggle around where he sat.

“Do you need the loo, lad?” Greg asked, glancing down at a shallow-breathing John.

John shook his head. He wouldn’t be able to move without releasing the contents of his bladder right there on the couch, and he wanted nothing more than to continue the all-encompassing feeling of need which had overtaken his mind and body. He felt as young as he had the day at the zoo, if not younger, and he never wanted the feeling of surrender to end.

Greg clearly did not believe John when he denied needing the loo, and John could understand why, particularly when, after another moment, John stuck a hand between his legs and held himself. There was a baseball-sized wet patch on his pajama pants which John was trying to hide by lifting his knees up towards his chest on the couch.

“Let’s just pause the movie for a minute and go try to use the loo, okay, bud?” Greg asked.

John didn’t want to get up off the couch, and he certainly didn’t want to use the bathroom. But Greg had figured him out, and John knew he wouldn’t let him off that easily  
.  
“Five more minutes?” He asked. “Please, Uncle Greg? This is one of the best parts of the movie. I’ll go after this part, I promise.” 

Greg seemed to reluctantly agree, and he hit play again on the film. 

It was only a moment later that John’s bladder released and he began peeing his pants full-force. John stopped breathing and did not make a sound as he wet himself. The hand between his legs became soaked in warmth as urine spread through his underwear and into his pajama pants. He knew he should tell Greg, knew he should get up off the couch, but instead he remained as still and as quiet as possible, flooding his pants and the couch cushion and feeling, more than anything, content. 

Warm wetness pulsed into his clothing and the couch cushion until all he could feel was wet fabric against the skin of his legs and bum. It was exhilarating, peeing himself on the couch, but it was also terrifying. He sniffled and blinked up at Greg when he felt himself able to stop. He felt so young and so vulnerable. He felt excited.

Greg seemed to understand immediately what had happened. He paused the movie and glanced down to where John knew there would be a wet spot surrounding him.

“Uh oh, bud,” he said. “You had a little accident, huh?”

John shook his head as if he could deny it away, but his cheeks were red and the smell of urine which had pulsed into his pants and underwear was sure to have reached Lestrade. 

“It’s okay, hon.”

Greg leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

“We’ll get you all cleaned up and in a pull-up in no time, okay?”

John gaped up at Lestrade in confusion. He felt young and everything seemed confused now that he had wet in his pants and the questions and thoughts were crowding back into his mind. What did Greg think now that he’d seen John wet himself twice in the span of a month? Would he tell Mycroft and would Mycroft punish him? Was Greg trying to punish him by telling him he had to wear a pull-up now? And, why, more than anything, did John feel the immense desire to wet himself again as soon as he could? It was all scary and confusing.

“Want Mycroft,” John said.

Greg seemed to understand John’s mental state in the moment was rather fragile, and he pulled out his mobile and found Mycroft’s contact quickly. 

“Let’s give him a call and see if he can talk to you, alright, bug?”

John nodded, squirming in the wet spot he had made and wiping at his eyes with the backs of his hands. He had not yet started to cry, but he felt as if he might. “Want to talk to him,” he said.

Greg first lifted John off of the couch, transporting him to the kitchen presumably to keep him from dripping on a carpet, then handed John the phone. When Mycroft answered and John heard the man’s voice, John made a keening sound in the back of his throat; he wished Mycroft was there with him. He needed him.

“Greg? Is everything alright? Did John go down for bed?”

John glanced at the clock and realized that, yes, it was already past his bedtime. There was a chance Mycroft might be mad, but he didn’t mind at the moment. He just needed to talk to him.

“Mycroft?”

There was a pause in Mycroft’s string of questioning.

“Bunny? Are you okay?”

And then John did cry. He cried because he missed Mycroft and because it had been a hard few days and because the urine was now cold and itchy between his legs and he needed Mycroft to talk out his feelings and he wasn’t there and it wasn’t fair.

“Bun, you need to breathe and talk to me, kid. You’re worrying me. Let me know you’re okay.”

John sniffled and took a deep breath.

“I’m okay,” he said, voice wavering.

“Why are you crying, bud?”

John shrugged.

“Miss you, Daddy,” he said. 

It was the first time John had called Mycroft Daddy outright instead of calling him by his first name, and his stomach fluttered with nerves thinking about what Mycroft’s reaction may be. But, as ever, the man seemed unphased.

“Daddy misses his little boy, too.”

“Are you coming home?” John asked, shifting from foot to foot on the kitchen linoleum, wishing Greg would stop looking at him.

Mycroft sighed on the other end of the phone.

“I’m sorry, poppet, but there are a few final loose ends that need to be tied up here. I promise I’ll be back as soon as possible, probably as early as tomorrow, and then I’ll spend as much time with my little boy as he wants. Are you with Uncle Greg?”

“Yeah-huh,” John sniffled. “He’s taking good care of me.”

Mycroft seemed relieved.

“I’m glad to hear that, Bunny.”

“Daddy?” John asked, his voice lower, nearly a whisper.

“Yes, bud?”

“I’m sorry.”

Mycroft sounded concerned when he next spoke. “For what, love?”

John swallowed an impending wave of fresh tears.

“Had an accident,” he whispered.

He heard Mycroft sigh, which made John worry that he would be angry. But Mycroft’s voice was soothing when he next spoke. “That’s okay, bunny. Everyone has accidents from time to time. Does Uncle Greg know so he can help you clean up?”

“He knows,” John mumbled, fingers in his mouth.

“Okay, big boy,” Mycroft said. “Is it okay if you put Uncle Greg on the phone so I can talk to him for a moment, love? I’ll talk to you again after I speak with him, okay?”

John nodded and held the phone out to Greg, who walked into the living room and spoke softly with his back to the kitchen so that John couldn’t hear the conversation he was having with Mycroft. 

John wiped his face. He felt much better after talking with his Daddy, and, if he were lucky, Mycroft might be home tomorrow. John reached a hand down and felt the wetness of his pajama pants. John had more liquid in him, and, as he waited for Greg to get off the phone, he wondered what it would be like to release his bladder fully. He wanted to feel smaller, wanted it to soak himself even more and wanted to let someone else worry about cleaning him up. He wanted to forget the pain and the stress of the day. 

So, he stood behind the kitchen table and spread his legs. He let his bladder go completely, feeling himself peeing again after a moment. The urine warmed the cooling fabric and liquid pulsed through the soaked material until he felt it trickling down his leg. John reached down and felt the warmth of his accident as he released. He rubbed the wet material of his pajamas as he finished.

“Bun?” Greg asked, and John turned with red cheeks to find himself face to face with Greg.

“Had more of an accident,” he whispered, cheeks blazing and eyes wide.

“That's alright, kid. We’ll get you all cleaned up in a moment, okay? Right now your Daddy has to say goodbye.”

John reached for Greg’s cell phone with the hand not wet with urine and pressed the phone up against his ear.

“Want you, Daddy,” John said despite knowing it would be impossible for Mycroft to come home at the moment.

“Here’s the plan, hun. Uncle Greg said you already had a bath tonight, so he’s going to help you clean up with some wipes and get you into some new pajamas. I think your Uncle Greg's right that it would be best for you to wear a pull-up tonight just in case.”

John whined. “Big boy,” he said.

But Mycroft was immune to John’s pleading.

“We’re not debating, Bun. It’s just for in case,” he said. “Even big boys need protection just in case sometimes.”

“Like Sherlock on long car rides?” John asked.

There was laughter in Mycroft’s voice. “Exactly,” he said. “Now, hun, once Uncle Greg gets you all cleaned up, he’s going to tuck you in and read you one story. It’s past your bedtime and you need your sleep. I’ll be there when you wake up in the morning.”

“Want you now,” John said, and Mycroft assured him he would be there as soon as possible. 

“Get cleaned up and get some sleep now, love. I expect to see a well rested boy when I get back tomorrow, okay?”

John nodded and yawned, suddenly tired after the emotional toll of the day and the evening.

“Okay. I'll be a good boy,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Mycroft said goodnight and John was too tired to feel ashamed when Greg led him into the bathroom, stripped him, scrubbed him down with wipes, dressed him in one of Sherlock’s pull-ups and a fresh pair of pajamas, and tucked him into bed.

“I’m sorry for being a bad boy tonight, Uncle Greg,” John said as Greg turned out the lights.

Greg paused at the doorway. He turned around and came to rest on the edge of the bed next to where John lay.

“What makes you think you were bad, kid?”

John shrugged and yawned. 

“I cried and complained and yelled at you and then I...I went to the loo in my pants like a baby and you had to clean me up. I'm supposed to be a big boy and be brave like a Gryffindor.”

Greg patted John’s knee over his Harry Potter comforter. 

“Today was a tough day, Bunny,” he said. “And you dealt with it the best way you knew how. You told me what you needed and you tried your very best to make do with a tough situation. Does that sound like a bad boy to you?”

John shrugged.

“It doesn't to me,” Greg said. “It takes a brave Bunny to get through a day as tough as today.”

John blushed and tried to believe Greg. After all, he had made it through the day. 

He said goodnight to Greg before rolling over and closing his eyes. He rubbed his new baby blanket against his nose and tried not to think too much about what would happen if he were to wet the pull-up between his legs.


	4. It's All Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I definitely got myself into a bit of trouble by trying to update two stories at once. The first 2 chapters of this story were already written when I started updating, but in the process of writing and editing chapter 3 and 4, there were some developments that came about which then changed the course of the events of "Weekend at the Lake." I had to go edit Weekend a second time so that the narrative will work between this story and Weekend. 
> 
> I'm going to call this the last chapter of Little John and Uncle Greg so I'm not left with the same problems going forward and will be forced to updated Weekend and then just move forward from there. If you catch any other issues with Weekend that no longer fit/make sense now that Chapter 4 of this story is up, PLEASE don't hesitate to let me know--I think I caught everything in the second edit, but I'm sure there are a few things that I missed!
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy the final chapter of this story! It shifts between John and Mycroft's perspectives and there are definite warnings for omorashi as John processes his feelings towards wetting.

Early morning light was streaming through the slits in the curtains when John woke. He blinked a few times as he attempted to come out of sleep and back to consciousness. He yanked the baby blanket out from under his back, where it had bunched uncomfortably beneath him, and he pulled the pacifier out from where it had lodged beneath his neck when it had fallen out of his mouth. 

It took a moment for John to realize that he was in his adult mindset again. He had woken up a time or two throughout the night and had been exclusively little during those occasions--once getting up to use the loo (he had thought about but then decided against wetting his pull-up), and once to weepily check if Mycroft had arrived yet. Both times, Greg had patiently helped him with whatever it was he needed and then put him back to bed with a pat on the hand and a kiss on the forehead.

John climbed out of bed and stretched. He could not help but get his hopes up that Mycroft had arrived. He may no longer be feeling as if he needed his Daddy, but he certainly felt as if he needed Mycroft to help him process his feelings and emotions of the night before, feelings he had been struggling with for a few weeks, now. 

There was a part of John that felt he should change out of the childish pajamas he had been dressed in, bunny rabbits scattered over the cotton fabric. But if he changed out of his pajamas it would only make sense that he would also change out of the pull-up Greg had dressed him in, and for some reason that John would need Mycroft to help process, he felt compelled to keep that on. 

And so it was dressed in a pull-up and colorful bunny pajamas that John emerged from his bedroom, climbed downstairs, and crossed the living room to find Mycroft waiting for him in the kitchen, a cup of tea and a sippy cup of orange juice placed in front of John’s side of the table. Mycroft had obviously prepared for more than one scenario. 

\---

Mycroft had sent Greg away with thanks and with assurances that he owed him, pleased to be back and eager to ensure that John was feeling okay. He had clearly been able to see just how much of a toll the case had taken on both John and Sherlock, but on John particularly. It was why he had told Sherlock to arrange for Greg to be let into the flat at Baker Street when he and John arrived back in London, why he had encouraged Sherlock to send John home even while Sherlock continued to tie up the loose ends of the case.

Generally, their chats occurred in the middle of the night, in the space for John which existed between little and big. John had been exhausted, however, and Mycroft knew he would sleep a full night. It was why he had slept himself on the sofa in John and Sherlock’s flat before waking with the sun and preparing both tea and orange juice. He hadn’t had to wait long. The sun was not fully risen by the time John stumbled into the kitchen, hair mussed and face lined from sleep.

There was a moment where John, recognizing Mycroft’s presence, nearly leaped at the taller man. But Mycroft could see John stop himself. He had woken up big, then, despite his current state of dress, and his excitement at seeing Mycroft had simply been a momentary flash of little John coming through before John checked himself. Mycroft was pleased to see John again after a trying afternoon and night the previous day, and was pleased to see the man looked far less haggard and frazzled, less down-trodden than he had when Mycroft had seen him last. He stood up from the kitchen table and opened his arms as he stepped closer to the man. John hesitated only for a moment, then seemed to realize that he didn’t need to be little to hug a friend, and buried his face into Mycroft’s chest.

“Morning,” Mycroft said, patting John’s back.

When John pulled away after a long moment, Mycroft placed a hand on John’s shoulder and held him at arm’s length.

“You’re looking better than you were when I last saw you. How are you feeling?”

John appeared to think for a moment before shrugging. Mycroft hummed.

“Feeling a bit non-verbal, then?” he asked, and John shrugged again. 

\---

It was rare that John was non-verbal when fully adult, but since being assured time and again in littlespace that there was nothing wrong with moments of quietude here and there, the man had become more prone to silences even in his adult state, although generally only with Mycroft. He was too paranoid others would view his quiet moments as rudeness.

“A bit, yeah,” John said quietly as he sat down across from Mycroft at the table.

“Let’s start here,” Mycroft said, sitting up and taking charge in a way that calmed John’s nerves. He had been unsure how to begin the conversation that he knew they needed to have, so it was comforting to simply follows Mycroft’s lead.

“I don’t mind,” Mycroft said.

John blinked up at him. 

“You don’t mind what?” John asked, needing Mycroft to clarify whether he was referencing John’s slips while on the case, his whininess the night before, his desire to call Mycroft “Daddy,” his wetting, the fact that he’d come to the table--full adult--in kids’ pjs and a diaper, or any of the other recent changes in John’s behavior that John himself had been questioning, even feeling guilty about.

“I don’t mind any of it,” Mycroft said simply. 

John sighed, not realizing until that moment that it was exactly what he had needed to hear. Even so, he was not sure he could fully believe Mycroft until they had spoken further. 

“It’s all a bit confusing,” he said, unable to express himself as clearly as he would have liked.

“What has you the most confused?” Mycroft asked. “It’s for the best if we begin there.”

John was torn between admitting he was confused about calling Mycroft “Daddy” and admitting he felt as if he wanted to wet himself all the time. But, if he were honest with himself, he was more embarrassed than confused about wanting Mycroft to be a father figure to him while he was in headspace. Their relationship had been quickly developing in such a way since John had begun slipping down in age. He was not confused about why his younger self considered Mycroft his Daddy. The man cared for him and made him feel safer than perhaps any human being other than his own parents ever had. He accepted and comforted and was there for John when no one else was. 

What was more confusing was why John kept thinking back to the day when he wet himself at the zoo, why he felt excitement when he thought about the wet spot he had left on the couch the night before. But John did not feel entirely comfortable chatting with Mycroft about wetting himself, especially because, deep down, he knew there was another element to this desire, something far from childish.

“I didn’t wet the pull-up,” John said quietly into his cup of tea before taking a sip to keep his attention anywhere except on Mycroft.

Mycroft, ever emotionally constant, seemed unphased.

“But you contemplated it,” he said.

John blushed, then nodded. He knew Mycroft was waiting for him to go on, waiting for him to set the pace of the conversation.

“It’s wrong,” John said. “Liking that.”

\----

Mycroft shook his head without hesitation. He did not want John to feel as if his desires were wrong or undesirable. The man had clearly been torn up by these emotions for some time now. He had contemplated confronting the man about these issues many times, but knew that, when it came to John, the man would only be able to process on his own terms. Mycroft would not have been able to force him to talk if he hadn’t been ready.

“Does it cause you or others harm?” he asked.

John blinked up at him. 

“No,” he said.

“Then there’s nothing wrong about taking enjoyment from this,” Mycroft said. “What does it make you feel?”

“Small,” John said right away, clearly not needing to think hard for the answer. “Vulnerable. Safe.” 

Mycroft nodded in approval. He needed to convince John that what he was feeling was okay, needed to ensure the man felt less conflicted on a daily basis.

“You feel that way because, in those moments, you allow yourself to be taken care of.”

“Exactly,” John said. 

Mycroft was relieved when he could see that John was feeling bolstered by Mycroft’s rational explanations, more sure of himself and less unmoored. Even so, Mycroft knew they had not yet gotten to the heart of the issue.

“But there’s something more,” Mycroft said, pushing the conversation in the direction he knew it needed to go for John to truly get past his conflicted state. “Those feelings alone wouldn’t cause you the level of guilt you’re struggling with, guilt you’ve been struggling with since the day at the zoo.”

John sighed, and Mycroft knew he would need to say the words that John, up to that point, hadn’t wanted to.

“You feel excited by wetting yourself,” he stated. “Which in turn makes you feel guilt because age play has generally been a non-sexual activity.”

John whined in the back of his throat, cheeks blazing with embarrassment.

“It’s not something we’ve ever discussed,” he said.

Mycroft knew he and John had never discussed John’s desire to wet, but Mycroft and Greg had discussed the issue at length when Mycroft had arrived at Baker Street. And it had become clear that both men could see the torment John was under regarding the issue.

“So let’s discuss now,” Mycroft said.

Hopefully, if Mycroft was willing to listen, John would be willing to explain as truthfully and as honesty as possible. He was relieved when John nodded.

“It’s not something I’ve explored before,” John began. “But even as early as that day Sherlock came back from the drug den and wet himself in front of me, it’s become a preoccupation. I’ve...been ashamed to admit it to myself.”

“To admit what?” Mycroft asked. He needed to force him to say the words, to force him to come to terms with what he wanted..

“That,” John cleared his throat, “That I’m turned on by wetting.”

Mycroft nodded, finishing his cup of tea and pouring himself and John another glass. John took the sippy cup, unscrewed the nozzled top, and drank the orange juice from the cup. 

“And?” Mycroft prompted.

“The day at the zoo only confirmed things for me. I was ashamed, but somehow the embarrassment became part of the appeal, part of the arousal. Since then, I’ve thought about it.”

“About what?” Mycroft prompted.

“Pissing myself,” John breathed, his cheeks now flushed with arousal. “All the time.”

“And as I said,” Mycroft smiled. “I’m fine with it. All of it. So is Greg.”

John released a breath Mycroft was sure the man did not realize he had been holding. 

“How can you be so sure? I’m not even sure what the implications of this are, Mycroft.”

“John, Greg and I care for you. We want you to be happy. And neither of us want you to stifle your desires or censor yourself simply for the sake of propriety. There’s nothing wrong with this, kid.”

\----

John smiled at the endearment. He still felt a bit unsure about exactly how his wetting would fit into the age play family he had been invited into, but he trusted Mycroft would know how to handle each situation as it came up. He felt relieved to be back in the man’s presence, safe and cared for and accepted. 

“Can we finish talking later?” John asked, suddenly on the verge of slipping younger. 

Mycroft stood from the table, clearing the cups and saucers. 

“Of course, Bunny,” he said, clearly aware that John felt the need to remove himself from the stress of the adult conversation. “Go play while Daddy makes breakfast, okay? Your brother should be home later this afternoon.” 

John smiled and, after climbing off the kitchen chair, settled on the floor of the living room to color in his mermaid coloring book. He had been worried that he and Mycroft had not discussed John’s slip-up the night before when he had called Mycroft “Daddy,” but Mycroft, with one simple sentence labelling himself “Daddy,” had signalled once again that it was all okay. They would chat about it later, when John was ready. For now, he could be little while his Daddy took care of him.

John lay on his stomach in the living room, kicking his feet as he colored with the glitter crayons his Daddy had bought for him. And when he felt the pressure in his bladder from the water Greg had given him the last time he put him to bed and the tea and the orange juice from that morning, he felt only the smallest hint of guilt when he paused the scribbling of his green crayon and began to pee. 

Warmth filled the pull-up and then, when it was bulged and full, spilled out through the leg holes and into his pajama pants, trickling beneath him, spreading out onto the rug where he lay. John relaxed completely, peeing freely until he lay in a puddle and even the bottom of his bunny t-shirt was wet with urine. 

When he was finished, he picked up his glitter crayon as he caught sight of his Daddy in the kitchen and his cheeks pinked. But he could not help but enjoy the feeling as he rocked back and forth on the rug, the bulk of his pull-up pressed wet between his legs. It was only when Mycroft called him for breakfast that John spoke up.

“Daddy?” he called, biting on the end of his crayon before realizing how yucky it tasted.

“Yes, peanut?” Mycroft asked, bringing two plates of food to the kitchen table.

“I wet my pants,” he mumbled.

Mycroft, as always, seemed unphased. Perhaps John had not been as secretive about wetting himself as he would have imagined, or perhaps it was just a logical conclusion that the boy would wet himself not long after being told it was all okay. 

“Whoops,” Mycroft said. “Seems like someone needs a quick bath before breakfast then, hm?”

John shrugged but allowed Mycroft to help him off of the rug. They both stared down at the wet circle of urine on the rug, and Mycroft asked John to get some paper towels while he found the carpet cleaner under the kitchen sink. 

“That’s a good boy,” Mycroft said as John helped him clean up his accident. “It’ll be good as new when we’re all finished.”

“Itchy, Daddy,” John said when they were nearly finished, wiggling where he stood and plucking at the wet fabric at his crotch.

“I know, bud,” he said. “Your pants must be cold and icky, huh? Let’s go take care of that.”

Mycroft finished up cleaning the rug and stood from his kneeling position, knees cracking as he commented about being an old man, which made John giggle. 

“You think that’s funny, kid?” Mycroft asked, grabbing John by the side to tickle him.

John squealed and raced out of the living room as Mycroft chased him down the hallway. It would be okay, John thought as he laughed and hid from his smiling daddy. It would all be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> More to come of this story, hopefully in a day or two!


End file.
